Bad Fanfiction Part One
by MuggleFckr
Summary: What did Lord Voldemort do after the Second Wizarding War? He didn't die, no... He sought out love.
1. Establishing Chapter

_So, obviously J.K. Rowling owns these characters and the universe. I apologise to her immediately._

Lord Voldemort was utterly confused. He didn't know it was possible for him to ever feel any sort of emotion, let alone be attracted to someone. Attracted might be a light word, for every time that the Dark Lord walked into the local Tesco and saw the tabloids, he melted. His Prada trousers became tighter each time he glimpsed a photo of those sparkling blue eyes. Was this what love was?

He questioned his sanity, the Dark Lord. He never realised just how attractive a pop star could be... let alone a _Muggle_ pop star... No. He had lost it. But how do you explain the tight trousers? The bounce in his step in the queue as he eyed a photo of his dream boat? Nothing but complete insanity. None of it made sense to him.

Perhaps... Perhaps the Order of the Phoenix was aware that he was still alive and kicking. He thought he had been pretty under the radar, functioning well in Muggle society. He still loathed them and thought they all would be better off dead, yet he was functioning. Still a Dark Arts enthusiast, Lord Voldemort was able to find some odd old magic to allow him to regain the physique of his former youth. So, although he was really almost eighty, he looked around twenty. He'd come to the conclusion that maybe the Horcrux thing was a bit much and that it might be a lot easier to just perform the 'Somes Quondam', the difficulty of finding a virgin sacrifice nowadays aside. He could stay young and fit, but he did have to be careful not to get hit by a car or lorry.

It was nice being 'young' again. A fresh start to a new chapter in his life. No, he wasn't good, he was still evil, but something in him had changed. He smirked every time he thought back to the year of 1998 and how Harry Potter thought that he had defeated the most powerful wizard of all time. Sorry, but _Expelliarmus_ was not an epic way for him to go. If he iwere/i to die, it would have to be with more than just a disarming spell. Come on. He had decided that it would be best to lay low for a while where his enemies could not find him, in Muggle London. After a few years, once Harry Potter and his goonies got settled in their 'peaceful' lives, he's launch his attack. It was brilliant. Not to mention... No one recognised him, which was absolutely perfect. He just blended in and had a fake name: 'Thomas Whetherby'. Brilliant, he was brilliant! No really, he was.

The former Dark Lord found himself standing in his London flat, staring at his complexion in a mirror. He looked good. He had his wand in his hand, ready to Disapparate to seek out his true love, the one in the tabloids. He knew, looking at his pale complexion, that his life would change forever. With that, he Disapparated.


	2. How it Begins

_Same disclaimer stands._

All of the sounds and lights surrounding the Dark Lord were starting to be a bit much but he could deal with it because he was going to finally see the only reason he had come to the United States in person. It seemed cliché to think of this as a sort of 'magical' moment, but it was. Growing up around Muggles, he was familiar with what television shows were… And if it were not for the help of the World Wide Web, he probably would have never been able to see this popstar perform before now. The Muggles surrounding him were absolutely irritating. Half of them were pre-teen girls holding signs that said various things proclaiming their love for one of the two singers left in the contest. Lord Voldemort sighed.

It would have just been easier to _Aveda Kedevra _all of them and just take what he wanted… But then again, that would obviously draw the attention of some of the Order members in the audience. A few rows behind him sat the Weasley clan (including the beloved Harry Potter and the Mudblood Hermione Granger) and a few sections further away sat various Aurors with shirts shouting their love for _his_ love. He narrowed his eyes at this observation. If any of them thought that they could claim the honey-haired star for themselves, they were unbelievably wrong. Those blue eyes would only sparkle for one person tonight: the Dark Lord Voldemort a.k.a. Tom Riddle a.k.a. Thomas Whetherby.

Being a Slytherin had its perks. The Dark Lord was sneaky and he knew exactly how to get what he wanted. The dark-haired young man appeared in the dressing room of a crying and disappointed runner-up. Perhaps it was the first time in his life, but Tom hesitated. _Should I really be sneaking into his room in such a time of emotional trauma and shattered dreams? Should I really start the conversation with such a blunt statement such as 'I think that perhaps the fat one should not have won'?_ Yeah, probably not such a good idea. He decided that it would be best to pretend that he cared…

"Excuse me," Tom said in a soothing voice. "I am aware that this might seem a bit off, however---" He paused and had to hold back a smirk at the reaction that he received from the depressed popstar.

"Who are you? What are you doing in here?" the singer asked quickly, lifting his head from his arms, brushing away tears from his watery blue eyes.

"Have no fear," the Dark Lord said with a slight smirk on his face. "I won't hurt you."

"Are you… British?" the confused star asked.

"Why yes, I am," Voldemort said with a shrug.

"You came all the way here to support me?" the honey-haired singer asked.

"I did. You see," Tom said, moving in closer to the singer. "I've had my eye on you from the start. You are undeniably talented, attractive, and I believe that I can help you."

The singer stared at the dark-eyed, dark-haired, and, well… quite handsome British young man standing before him in a crisp designer suit. 'Help' him? Whatever did he mean by that? He was unsure of him. Who just appeared in someone's dressing room without making a sound or without any sort of warning?

"Like I've said. You do not need to worry about me harming you," Tom said softly, putting a hand on the singer's shoulder. "No need."

"I'm sorry, but---" The singer stopped and turned around to face the Brit. "Who are you? I deserve to know. You've just broken into my dressing room. Who does that?"

Tom Riddle smirked and shook his head. Silly Muggle. "Come with me and I'll show you what I can do for you. I'm in the business," he cooed into the singer's ear. This would surely get this desperate singer to listen to him, at least for the evening. That's all he really wanted. The Dark Lord wasn't one for long-term relationships. One-night stands were perfect, even with the rich and famous. After all… He technically was the latter. With a smirk and a silent Imperius Curse, he and the popstar walked out of the dressing room and into the humid Los Angeles night.


	3. The Kiss

_Same disclaimer stands. Same apology implied._

"So," the Dark Lord said smoothly across the dinner table. "How is the Lobster Thermidor?"

"Bit's breat," he managed. The popstar's mouth was full as he enthusiastically nodded.

The two of them had already blown through three bottles of the finest champagne that the five-star restaurant had to offer. Although heartless, Tom was well aware that money, booze, and food was the way to a man's heart.

"I think we're soul mates," the sparkly-eyed singer said right before he took another sip of champagne.

Tom laughed. He barely had a soul and found the irony in the popstar's statement too funny.

"Yes, I feel we are, darling."

"Your accent is so hot."

"I know."

And then they promptly made out.


	4. The Fight

_I'm sorry._

Tom puffed on a cigarette as he poured over ancient scrolls that depicted horrific spells. He had taken to torturing people in the alleyway near his flat. His goal was to create another Jack the Ripper-esque scare in London.

The door to his study opened and the honey-haired popstar poked his head through the crack.

"Tom?" he asked quietly, aware that when his lover was in business mode there was a chance that things could get ugly if he were disrupted.

"My little bumblebee," the Dark Lord replied through gritted teeth. "What is it?"

The popstar hesitated before he said, "We need to talk."

_Great_, Tom thought to himself. _The little bastard probably wants to complain about how I'm never around and that-_

"About what?" Voldemort asked in the most polite manner that he could manage.

"Us."

Lord Voldemort grunted and stubbed out his cigarette in an ornate crystal ashtray that he had stolen from some rich broad up the way. He stood up and motioned for the singer to come in. After his lover took a seat in one of the plush emerald chairs near the fireplace, Tom sat across from him and stared him down.

"So, uh…" the singer hesitated. "I think I'm pregnant."

Tom stared. He was no doctor but he was damn sure that men did _not_ get pregnant. How the bloody hell was that possible? The only way it could be close to possible is if it were _im_possible.

"Darling," Voldemort said carefully. "You're fucking daft. There is no way in hell that you could possibly be pregnant. You're just fat."

"I AM NOT FAT!" the singer shrieked, standing up. "I THINK I'M PREGNANT WITH YOUR CHILD!"

"I can't have children," Tom muttered. The guy was way past infertile at his age. The fact that he looked twenty did not mean that his organs thought he was. "And men can't get pregnant."

The singer kicked over the chair that he had been sitting in as he lunged at Tom. The latter grabbed onto the singer and clamped his hand around his neck, nearly strangling him.

"Shut up," Tom hissed. "You have no idea what I'm capable of."

The singer attempted to kick the Dark Lord in his special place as he struggled to breathe.

"Now," Tom said lightly as he let go of the popstar. "We're going to play nicely."

Voldemort was starting to regret his decision to allow the popstar into his life. He was growing bored with it and was very close to getting rid of it for good. His earlier infatuation died almost as quickly as his erection the other night.


End file.
